The World's A Bad Place
by HanHannie
Summary: My name's Peter Parker. Yes, an old sounding name for this 21st century, especially for a 15-year-old. But, it could be worse. At this moment, I just so happen to be running. Not in a marathon, no. Though, I wish it was. But this was a serious panic kind of running and if I stopped I was dead. Like dead, dead. Like for reals, dead. (Mother/Son) (AU)
1. Prologue

**New fanfic that includes Peter Parker and Natasha Romanoff (Mother/Son). It's an AU.**

* * *

Hi.

My name's Peter Parker. Yes, an old sounding name for this 21st century, especially for a 15-year-old. But, it could be worse.

At this moment, I just so happen to be running. Not in a marathon, no. Though, I wish it was. But this was a serious panic kind of running and if I stopped I was dead. Like dead, dead. I'm not talking about going home to your parents after a bad grade or a terrible night on the town. But like for reals, dead.

I can feel my heart pumping acid and my wheezing breaths coming out of my burning lungs. I was desperate for someplace to hide for a while. If it weren't for the pounding footsteps behind me, I'd probably have given in to my body's wish of stopping or at least slowing down.

That wasn't an option. Other kids were waiting for me atop this building and I promised to arrive.

I peeked behind me. The men hadn't turned the last corner so I took the opportunity to turn again into an alley way and begin climbing the fire-escape up. I forced myself up with my arms, giving my legs a slight break. I could hear the rickety metal scrape beneath my tennis shoes as my clumsy steps began to worsen from exhaustion.

I could hear the men's calls now. I stopped. I didn't want them to notice me climbing the escape. I tucked myself into the corner of the metal bars beside the brick building and behind the ladder, hoping it would give me better cover.

As the guys rounded the corner, I held the breath that I didn't have, making my lungs screech for a heavy dose of oxygen. They looked around curiously. It didn't help that I was in a black alley way, wearing white. I attempted to cover the shirt as much as possible with my arms, hoping to darken the color in any way possible or at least make it seem like it wasn't a human standing there.

I closed my eyes, simply listening as the men grumbled and cursed. They pushed each other like rag dolls when they thought I wasn't there. Eventually, they decided to run further up the street.

I stood there for a bit longer until all their footsteps were gone and then for another minute after that until their voices also disappeared. When I thought I was, finally, out of ear shot, I started to ascend the fire-escape again, quietly.

During the climb, I thought back to how I even ended up here. I promise, it wasn't my fault. All I remember was walking to practice and at a street corner I got knocked out…

* * *

My name is Natasha Romanoff. Current police officer at the NYPD, Queen's Division. Former agent of S.H.E.I.L.D and distressed mother of one.

My current positioning is at the corner of 183rd and Union and I can't see my son anywhere, but I know he's around. Call it mother's intuition.

If you must know, recent events have taken him away and it's my fault. My past caught up with me in ways I've never seen and my son's paying the price. I need to get to him before his body is found in some river or lake, cold and forgotten.

My boots pound on the blackened, cold pavement. Street lamps, barely lit, light the ground water that poured in a storm a few days ago. The day after my son was grabbed. In those tourist pictures of New York, sometimes people consider this to be pretty or mysterious. To me this darkened atmosphere with leaky pipe drains being the only music to be herd simply reminded me of death and sadness. I try not to splash much.

I regretted a lot over these past few days. The moments I didn't smile or laugh with him. The moments when I yelled and screamed over what seemed to be such simple things. But most of all, the moments that haunt me the most are the ones where I never showed anything.

I've never been big on the whole emotion kind of thing, much due to my upbringing in S.H.E.I.L.D spy division. There were times where I never showed or felt anything for days at a time and I never explained to my son why. I'll admit I'm not going to win a "Good Mother" award. I'd probably barely reach, "Hey Your Kid's Not Screwed Up" award because after this he may just be scarred for life.

I tried so hard to hide my deadly past from him so that he'd grow up thinking the world was a good place and be willing to live in it. I didn't do a good job.

Even so, I believe in my kid. He's smart. I've taught him much, at least I hope so. He's skilled and fit. At the very least he can probably run.

I sprinted down the city street another block before pressing myself flush against the brick wall in an alleyway. My breath is coming out in uneven spurts, but not because of the exercise. I think… I think I'm scared. A feeling I haven't experienced since my first mission with S.H.E.I.L.D when I was eighteen. It's a lot worse that I remembered.

I can hear voices coming from the other side of an apartment building. All men, probably about half a dozen of them. I couldn't range the size though, but I'm guessing each of them are on the bigger side since it's their job to protect their boss.

Using one hand to keep my hair from going out too far, I peek my head around the corner as I watch the men run past. They seem confused, like they aren't sure where they are. For a moment, I thought it was an average gang, until I saw him.

A man of six feet with buzzed, dirty blond hair. He's the one I saw on the video, the one that was on the street corner when my son was walking to gymnastic practice. He's the one who knocked him out…

* * *

 **Note that the POV will change throughout the story. This is simply the prologue to gauge what people kind of want to see or if they want to see anymore at all. It's fine if you don't. Remember this is an AU.**

 **Please follow, favorite and review!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Official Chapter 1**

 **Note there will be POV changes throughout this story**

* * *

 **Peter's POV**

One Week Earlier

I can tell you the exact moment my life went to hell.

It started with waking up that morning.

"Peter!" My mom called as she smacked my head with a gross towel that she used after her work out. Her name was Natasha Romanoff and she was an early riser. She worked out at like six in the morning until like ten every morning and that towel was more of a whip than a towel. It, actually, hurt a bit.

I groaned at the awakening and blinked my blue eyes. It was far to light in this room, I wish I had something to close the curtains. "You've got school in 45 minutes. Breakfast is downstairs." She said, whipping the towel around her neck before heading back downstairs to the home gym.

"Do you mean cereal?" I mocked. The thing about mom was that she had everything going for her, smarts, looks, strength but she wasn't the best cook in the world. Usually I had to do the cooking instead.

She stopped at the doorway. "Yes." Then walked out.

I sat up and fisted my eyes until the sleepiness sensation wore off. Unfortunately, it never did. I was still tired.

Whoever thought about having school at 7:30 in the morning was crazy. I can promise I'd be much happier to learn stuff that I don't care about with three extra hours of sleep. In adult logic, by getting up earlier it meant that you didn't stay up later.

Well I'm the perfect example of how that logic is flawed. I like late night TV… shoot me.

However, my mom would probably say the same thing if she didn't work late and therefore was never home. She was a cop – I mean police officer. She hated when I used the slang terminology. Something about not respecting cops or something. I'm not sure.

Either way, she was one of those people who drove around all night looking for crimes, which sometimes took place, but usually came home having given out about $500 dollars-worth of traffic tickets.

Yep… it was always fun learning how to be safe on the road at 15, right as I got my drivers permit… Actually, it sucked ass.

Most kids went to Drivers Ed for three days to learn how to drive and pass the test. Me? I got a special course of about three weeks to learn everything and I mean everything. Including, every street sign, road sign, pedestrian, even the ins and outs of the car itself (which was pretty cool, all things considering), she also made me memorize every street and all the ways home from almost any corner of the state. She even tested me! How dumb is that?

I can tell you, I was more prepared for that exam, than for any other exam I've ever taken in my 15 years of life. And don't even get my started on the whole "driving hours" thing. In case some of you didn't know, you had to log hours that you drove every time you did. By the time you got your license at 16, you had to have like 50 hours of daytime driving and 20 hours of nighttime. Seems simple, but let's just say she tripled that.

I guess it hasn't been that bad so far. I get to drive almost everywhere (with her in the passenger seat, of course). Still, she is such a backseat driver that I'm starting to want to the break the rules just to see if she'd give her own son a ticket.

Enough about that though, I had to get ready for school. Getting up was a struggle. First, I had to leave this nice warm bed to brace the cold room. I slid out placing both feet on the floor. Once I got this far, normally, it was easy sailing. Today was just not my day because instead my foot caught on the tossed away blanket and I fell. Luckily, I caught myself with my hands in an almost perfect plank before my face kissed the ground.

I easily pushed myself up. That gymnastic training truly paid off when it came to fixing my clumsiness, that's for sure. That's another thing you should probably know, I'm a gymnast, been doing it for about seven years now when I was socially inept and my mom felt the need to put me in a sport. I guess team sports for socially awkward people was – well – awkward. So, I needed a sport that I could still meet people, but wasn't "technically" a team sport as in my scores didn't completely depend on others.

I changed into dark jeans, a white t-shirt, a light blue overlay shirt, and sneakers. Going into the bathroom, I brushed my dark brown hair until it was a little less spikey from the norm and brushed my teeth, you know, the usual.

Picking up my backpack, I stowed away all the colorful folders, books and papers, as if the colors made "learning fun" and walked out. Unfortunately, I never did pick up the blanket from the floor and I tripped and fell again, this time not catching myself quickly enough. My back landed roughly on my back with a thump and I felt the wind get knocked out of me for a second. With a groan, I picked myself up.

My feet tumbled down the stairs until I turned to enter the kitchen. Grabbing a cereal box on top of the fridge I sat down for breakfast.

Mom came in a few minutes later to check that I was up and ready to go. "Ready for school, Peter?"

"I guess." I answered, shrugging, milk trickling out of my mouth as I did.

"Don't forget you have practice today." She reminded me. The biggest problem with mom was her lack of emotion. She'd laugh sometimes, and smile sometimes. But usually, she was serious which made it quiet around the house.

"I know."

"What's wrong?" She asked, sitting down at the table next to me. She sipped her water.

"Nothing. Just tired." It was true. There was nothing wrong.

"I heard to fall upstairs. Are you okay?"

"Fine." I glanced at her. "Tripped over my comforter."

"I guess that means you didn't make your bed before coming down."

I shook my head. I knew she wouldn't care. My room was mine. I could do anything I wanted to it, if it didn't look completely disastrous and didn't destroy the structural integrity of the place. Besides, there was no reason to make a bed that would be ruined at the end of the day. Instead I just closed the door so that the house itself looked clean.

"How'd that exam go by the way?"

"Same as usual."

"Did you read the book this time?"

"I just hate literary books. Why do they have to be so boring?"

"They're supposed to teach you critical thinking, problem solving, and life lessons."

"Well there is a central theme in every single one of them." I started.

"What's that?"

"That the world sucks and that there's nothing you can do about it."

"I don't think they're about that." She shakes out her short, curly, bright red hair.

"Really?" I looked at her confused. " _Brave New World_ – about a society who doesn't believe in naturally born children. Basically, about how terrible the government is and how terrible we are that we allow the world to change into something like that. But at the end, nothing really changes. Spoiler: the guy dies. A.K.A. The world sucks. _Heart of Darkness_ – about a guy who realizes that white/rich society sucks but that all the other people are simply barbaric. Spoiler: the guy dies. A.K.A. The world sucks. _Invisible Man_ – about how African Americans are treated during segregation. Spoiler: the guy dies. A.K.A. The world sucks."

"Even Shakespeare wrote about how terrible the world is, but he did it iambic petameter format. Spoiler: everyone dies! This doesn't include, _Lord of Flies, Huckleberry Finn, Tale of Two Cities_ , or _The Great Gatsby_."

Throughout that entire stupid rant my voice begins to climb higher in both loudness and pitch. If anyone heard me say any of this out loud to the public, I'd probably be criticized for my lack of culture or intellectual aptitude that I couldn't, for the life of me, enjoy these stories.

Honestly, when a book, on more pages than one, basically tells you that the world is a terrible place simply for the fact that we live on it, it's hard to enjoy them. Give me a good comic book any day.

I've always wondered what would happen if teachers gave us more modern literature, even comic books. Yes, I'm well aware that'd never happen and I'm not talking about Harry Potter, either. I'm talking about a book that was, I don't know, from this century. I mean every book has a central theme, right? Probably ones that are very similar to those from the literature before, just written in a way that the average person in this day of age would understand while still enjoying the story.

Though, yet again, if I said that I'd probably be called entitled by the older generation simply because of the fact that I can't handle that strange language and are unwilling to work for it.

The basic idea is that I'm not very good when it came to English class, it was probably my worst subject. "So, of course, I got a C on that exam. So, I'm just happy I passed." I told her, calming myself down.

"Come on, Peter. You had to enjoy reading at least one of them."

"Huckleberry Finn wasn't bad, neither was Tale of Two Cities or The Great Gatsby. But Lord of Flies was definitely the worst, in my opinion."

She pushed a small hair out of my face. "You shouldn't be so harsh."

I groaned and slammed my head on the table, nearly spilling milk a cereal all over. "Didn't you ever have to do this stuff?"

"Yep." She answered, simply. Then took my cereal bowl and walked to the sink. "I did and I probably complained about it too."

"I just don't get how telling us the world is such a bad place makes us want to work hard for it."

"It's not about wanting to, you've got to."

"Don't go all motivational speaker on me, please, Mom."

"Peter," I could tell she was looking at me. "There isn't much to sugar coat, the world is a terrible place. But, it's a good place, too. It's about noticing those bad things and trying to make them better."

I buried my face into my hands. "I feel like that just causes more trouble."

"Sometimes. But," She gave a strong squeeze of the shoulders from behind. "How would you know if you didn't try?"

"Stop…" I groaned. It was weird when parents got sentimental. My mom may be a police officer and all, and her job "technically" is supposed to stop the bad guys to make a better world. But what's the point when more people are born and more people commit the same crimes as the one before. To me, it's just a never-ending cycle.

I kind of wish that the world was more like a comic book. Sure, you had the villains that constantly returned, but it seemed like, other than those choice-few, the rest of the people were good. The city would be happy and carefree until the next large attack when the selfless superhero would save the day and make peace in the city once again. That sounded much better than the constant nagging that the world was bad from all of these high-school literature books. The worst part was that nothing was ever solved in these school books. It's not like a mystery comic when the main character seeks out a killer and eventually captures him. No, these books simply made note of the problem, but never gave the answer to solving it.

I suppose it's because there was no solution. But that just made the whole thing more confusing and a lot harder to write a five-page report on.

Mom released my shoulders, choosing to go back to her work out. "You better leave soon." She called out the door. Not even a smile.

I sighed. "Right." I grabbed my bag and jacket from the closet and made my way out the front door. "Bye, Mom!"

* * *

Taking a step out of my front door, I tried to clear my head with a deep inhale of freshly, slightly-polluted air. The neighborhood was nice. It was a suburb of the big city of Queens, New York. The houses looked similar in structure but they each had a different vibe depending on the occupants.

I always found it interesting how a handful of people either overly took care of the front yards as if they were compensating for something and how another sort completely disregarded their front yards because they just didn't care about life. Most of the lawns, however, were somewhere in that happy medium level. Just green grass and a tree, maybe some flowers. Our lawn was like that: simple and easy to take care of.

One lawn in particular always struck me as over the top whenever I walked by it. It was another similarly structured, white house. This house, though, had a giant, koi-fish filled, fountain in the center and small bushes surrounding the fountain. Then there was the greenest grass I've ever seen in my life. The kind you see in movies or in pictures. After that, following the line on their driveway were large spiral trees. On their front porch, which was enclosed except for two sides, there was a life-sized picture of a guy planting rice, as if that was completely normal to see in New York.

In summary, the lawn looked incredible – strange – but incredible.

I walked a few blocks before running into the stop light that separated the neighborhood from the city. Midtown High was just a few short blocks from the mouth of the street.

In all honesty, I didn't hate school. I just hated certain parts of school. I liked science and math. I was pretty good at artistic stuff, mostly photography and, I, especially, liked seeing my friends for the majority of the day. I didn't even mind gym all that much. Gymnastics has kept me fit so I don't have to worry about crippling anxiety of being in gym class. I could keep up for the most part.

But I hated English and I really hated this guy named Flash. A.K.A Football Star turned School Bully. He was probably one of the three biggest guys in school and he just loved coming after me.

It's not my fault I tend to be socially impaired, Flash takes that as an opportunity to pick on me a lot. Too bad, I didn't take self-defense classes like Karate, because, unfortunately, other than running and leaping, I can't say I'm too exceptional in the fighting department.

Which means it shouldn't have surprised me when I got shoved into my locker within the first ten minutes of the school day. Good thing I wasn't small enough that the door could close. But I was small enough that it could latch.

I waited. Within in the minute a bang shook the metal locker door, unhooking the latch and falling open. "Stuck again, Peter?" She was confident and sarcastic.

"Yeah." I brushed myself off. "Thanks, MJ."

"Why you let him do that is beyond me."

"If you have a suggestion on how to kill a bear while somehow destroying all the evidence, I'd love to hear it." I wave my hands to amplify the – mostly – sarcastic comment.

She scoffed and walked off as confident as ever, her red hair blowing strips behind her. Her green eyes, determined but somehow soft and pretty. Jeez, I'm a weirdo. Let me ask you, was it weird to have a crush on a girl you've known forever? Because I think I may be the only one.

Then something dawned on me. She didn't laugh at my comment, not even a little. "Do you have a suggestion?" I looked at her, suspiciously.

"Hurry up, Peter." She called behind her, still refusing to answer. It took me a second to realize I hadn't moved. Not cool, Pete, not cool!

"Coming!" I said back, jogging to catch up. As we bobbed and weaved through the students and randomly placed trash cans, we caught up to Harry as the three of us entered the classroom. Now, Harry is truly the best, best-friend I could ever ask for. Even though he's super rich, he somehow still manages to be cool and collected. We're like brothers.

"Sup, Pete!"

"Hey, Harry. What's up?"

He bumped my arm with his elbow. "What do you think we can do with my dad's penthouse and $1000 dollars for the weekend?"

I shrugged. "Order all the pizza we ever could want and watch ninja movies while we act out the scenes." I hoped.

"Lame, Pete. I was talking about a party. A major rager!"

"Harry, you just had a party last weekend." Mary Jane reminded him.

"Yeah, but my dad comes home on Monday, which–."

"Which probably means you should make sure nothing gets trashed." She interrupted. You could see the playfulness dancing in her eyes. I knew it well; my mom shows it on rare occasions, but I never forget it. Mary Jane flipped her hair over her shoulder, collected her books so that she had a better grip of them, and stepped into the classroom.

Harry looked awe struck, which made me chuckle a bit. Mary Jane had a way with doing that to people. Sometimes it was her looks, or her smarts, or her smile, or… and I'm babbling. Harry glanced at me. I eyebrowed him and smirked, giving him a slightly shrug. "You don't have time to replace anything."

I walked off. I could hear Harry behind me, silently adjusting his own backpack before following me in.

* * *

The final bell rings at exactly 2:30pm, which is exactly three minutes and twelve seconds from now. You could tell the rest of the class was anxious. It was Friday, which meant weekend.

The teacher, however, continued until the bell, like always. Teaching must really be painful. I'm sure they want to leave just as much as we do, but they have to continue to talk to kids that aren't really paying attention anyways. At least their getting paid to be here. Not that much I suppose.

Have you ever noticed how some teachers love their jobs and others simply do it because of the need for work? I have. What I've also noticed was that the teachers who love their job, influence their students to like the class. At least most of the time.

I'll admit there was this teacher last year that kind of made me like English. That's because she never judged people on being stupid, because English is extremely opinionated. She'd give you a grade that you deserved based on the argument you presented, rather than having the most knowledge on the book, itself. It was a good system that didn't punish students based on having a full understanding of a completely opinionated subject, in which there is no full understanding.

The bell rang, clear and loud. Immediately, students began packing up in a rush and the clang of chairs to desks made the room almost unbearably loud. The teacher of course tried to explain that "the bell doesn't dismiss you, I dismiss you," kind of thing. It doesn't work so well when 50% of the class is already out the door though.

I was one of those people. I had practice after school and had to go home and change. Plus, with my mom probably heading to work, I'd have to walk which was a good 20 minutes extra.

Unfortunately, I'd also have to account for Flash waiting outside the door. I never understood why he didn't just leave like everyone else. He must really get a kick out of me bleeding on the ground, literally.

I shuffled to the side hallway and out the side door instead. It was the best way to avoid him. With any luck the security cameras would catch his confused, ugly face when he realized I left. That would be plenty incentive to hack into the school security systems.

The walk home was uneventful. I listened to my IPod most of the way. Stopping only at the traffic light. When I walked into my house, I noticed my mom perched at the edge of the couch. "Hey, mom."

She didn't respond. Clearly, something on the television was more important than me coming home. I dropped my backpack on the stairs and turned into the family room where she was sitting. I walked behind the couch and rested my arms there, tuning into the news report on TV.

 _"Recent DNA tests have matched up with seventeen-year-old, Katelyn Milson. She was last seen leaving her part-time job at the mall Sunday night,"_ the reporter said. _"The family has asked the community to keep safe and watch for suspicious figures."_ She continued to talk to her co-host after that, showing empathy for the family and community.

"Poor girl." I said.

"Yeah." Mom responded. "She was the daughter of Tom Milson, one of my colleagues. I worked on several cases with him, she used to bring him coffee on Tuesdays."

"I'm sorry." I look at her, though she doesn't turn around.

"Couldn't imagine that one day, your child is happy and alive and the next their dead and their bodies found in the worst of places."

"That would be pretty sad." I empathized. I stayed there for a few more moments until the reporters changed the subject. "I've got to get ready."

I went upstairs to change into sweats and a tank top. No, I'm not one of those tight-fitting, frilly kind of gymnast. They're just not as comfortable as these.

I grab my gym bag and hopped down the stairs. "Peter!" I hear.

"What's up, mom?" I call from the doorway.

"Be safe!"

"I will! Have a good day at work!" I closed the door.

* * *

 **How'd it go? Did you like it? I know there wasn't much in this chapter but a few rants but everything plays into the plot.**

 **Please follow, favorite, and review!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

 **Natasha POV**

"I will! Have a good day at work!" I heard the door latch itself. A key shimmied itself into the metal lock and turned to close it completely. _Be Safe_. I repeated in my head, hoping that if there were any superstitious, higher power out there, then it would be heard.

I ran through the files of my current case one more time before work. It was a case on a Mike Herring, a thirteen-year-old boy who was taken outside of his school while waiting for his foster dad to pick him up like he was supposed to. Unfortunately, due to work circumstances, his father was late and found that Mike was nowhere to be seen. After twenty-four hours, the family had called to report him missing.

According to his picture, given to us by his parents, he relatively had the same build as Peter but slightly skinner due to age with short, brown hair and brown eyes. His file stated that he was last seen wearing a dark blue hoodie, shorts, and converse like shoes. Too bad, that most children tend to fit a description like this.

The papers from the file feel like sand under my fingertips, as I carefully prod the corners of each sheet to switch to the next. I'm not getting much to work with and it's frustrating. No witnesses, no notes, no cellphone trackers or credit card uses.

Poor kid, having lost his biological parents already, going through hell in foster care until his dad picked him up and brought him here. Now he's kidnapped. His emotional state is iffy as is. I can tell by the look in his eyes from the picture.

I can't afford to think that way, though. I can't be sorry for a child I've never met because if that child ends up deceased, I can't have any emotional attachment to him or his family. Not that I would in the first place. My emotions don't run high. Sometimes, I wonder if I even have them anymore.

Then I look at my son and I feel… happy. He makes me happy. Yes, he came about in an unconventional way. Me somehow ending up with an infant on my doorstep was not exactly ideal. But that didn't matter, I loved him.

In case you're wondering, he knows about that – how he came to me one night and cried on my doorstep during a warm summer day in August. I asked him constantly if he ever wants to meet his birth parents. Every time he tells me no. 'Ignorance is bliss,' he'd say. He'd rather have life stay the way it is: uncomplicated.

I'll admit, I was a bit relieved to hear him say that. But, something in me ached to know the true reason. Was he angry at his birth parents? Was he worried about me and how I feel?

With those doubts in mind, I've always given him the option of doing so, still he shows no interest. Maybe one day he will, but today is not that day.

A loud, vibrating knock on the front door brought me out of my thoughts. I stood up from the kitchen table, creating a large screech against the dark, wooden floor with the chair. The floor creaks as I move to answer the door. I already know who it is.

"Hey, Nat!" He greeted.

"Hey, Clint." I reply. My sandy haired friend enters the house, taking his black coat off while doing so. "Have any new evidence on this case yet?"

He hands me a folder. "Yes, but—," he paused. His biting of his lip signaled that something was wrong. "It's not good."

I hummed in wonder and grabbed the folder. I flipped through, scanning the white pages for something considerable. I stopped on the last page, reading the most current entry.

Mike was found.

His body laid sprawled inside a large gutter in the park. There were two bullet holes, on in the boy's chest and the other in his right bicep. It was fresh, only a few hours old from this report—which was taken this morning at 1:42 am.

Natasha noticed a small detail, however. The boy's open, unseeing eyes where bloodshot and his tongue was black. _Odd._ She thought.

"Weird that two bodies show up within a similar time frame. Don't you think?" Clint pondered, aloud.

"Yeah." I scanned the paper again, not really listening. "Was there anything on the autopsy?"

"Autopsy? They didn't do an autopsy." Clint said, confused.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Why would they? They know that cause of death. He has a bullet directly in his heart."

I glanced at the picture again. Luckily, I have a good memory for these kind of things, so I filed the photo into my permeant memory banks for later retrieval.

"Apparently, this kid is the nephew of John Reeds." Clint mentioned.

"Reeds? Really?" I was surprised. I didn't know that Reeds had any siblings.

"Yeah. He's devastated. I guess they were close." Clint replied, solemnly.

"Katelyn was that way, too." I whispered, low. Hoping to keep my skeptism out of the equation.

"What way? Was she related to Reed? I thought she was Tom's kid."

"I mean that she was related to a police officer."

"You think someone's targeting them specifically?" Clint asked, engaging in this sudden realization.

"Perhaps. But, I don't know who."

Clint just shrugged.

"What recent cases have they been on?" I asked after, curious.

Clint took a breath, his eyes moving up into his upper lid in complete thought concentration. "They were on Boulder's case, but he's in jail. The Ratson brothers, but they're also in prison. In fact, their trail should be coming up soon. Um…" He continued his train of thought. "They're was that gang bust that happened with you."

"We caught all those people." I answered with absolute certainty.

Clint bit his lip again and shrugged. "That's all that I can think of off the top of my head."

"Remind me to consider that when we get to the station." I put the folder under my arm and grabbed my black, sports backpack.

"Will do." Clint nodded, opening the door to let them both out.

* * *

The station was particularly rowdy today. Dispatchers and Forensics running about the area trying to get any new leads on any of the new cases. Several car accidents are in progress, plenty of robberies to be taken care of and most of all the missing person's list is increasing exponentially.

Clint and I burst through the bustling crowds to our desks on the far side of the building. The desks were open and backed up to each other. We shared office space with eight other detectives.

While Clint's desk was messy, papers and pens trailing the wooden surface in a cluster of thoughts and sticky-notes, mine is pristine. Everything in place, pens and pencils in the cup holder on the left corner and files neatly tucked away in the under storage filing cabinet.

"Romanoff, Barton." Someone called from the left. "What happened to the missing child case?"

It was the chief, Mrs. Karen Widfield. "We found him, but—," Clint explained.

"But, nothing, Mr. Barton. I don't want excuses, I want results. The press is outside awaiting answers. If you can no longer find the kid alive, find the person who killed him."

"Yes, ma'am." Clint saluted her as she walked by. She simply sighed and rolled her eyes at his antics. I simply nodded in understanding. Mrs. Widfield stomped away, frustrated with the lack of good news.

"What crawled up her ass today?" Clint asked, turning back towards his desk and plopping down on the black, spin chair.

"She's just doing her job, Clint." I defended. I understand Karen's frustrations. It would be difficult to see anyone die when the police had been out there looking for the past few days for them. Then there was the press. The harsh, flash of cameras and annoying, babbling questions. Not to mention that everything was relative to the press. Even if we told them exactly what happened, they'd twist it into some horror story.

Freedom of press, I suppose. Though, I'm sure that the amendment meant to protect true news, rather than fake tabloids, but who am I to judge. I don't mind flipping through the thin pages of a magazine while waiting in endless lines at the grocery store. Sue me.

After several hours of tedious paperwork, filing, and research, I remember Mike's black tongue. I can't remember anything that turns someone's tongue black. Purple, sure. Blue, yes. But black… that was odd. I went through the average consumable products of sugary delights: hard candy, gum, chocolate. None of them changed your tongue black.

Yes, in case you're wondering, I looked into lollipops. Out of the hundreds known flavors, not a single one turns the entire tongue black. Strange, right?

But, you know what does? Arsenic. One of the most toxic, stable, elements in the known world. Though it is found in many foods, high dosages of pure arsenic are, ultimately, fatal. This only works, however, if it is consumed in its purest form. But who the hell has arsenic just lying around the place?

I racked my mind around it, until a small tap poked its way into my shoulder. "Hey, Nat."

I turn. It's Clint. "What did you find?"

"Turns out the kid had also had a fatal blow to the head. No outer wounds, simply a blunt instrument and some major internal bleeding."

"That seems quite clean." I pointed out. Noticing the no blood policy.

"And completely undetectable." Clint added.

"Interesting." I respond quietly. My phone vibrates inside my pocket. I quickly slide it out of its slot and check the incoming message. Simply, a text from Peter saying he made it home. He always does this. I guess to give me some peace of mind, which it does, in all honesty.

I send him back a quick 'k' and put the phone away. "Who was that?" Clint asked.

"Peter." I reply.

Clint's face lit up. He was always fascinated in the fact I had a child to begin with. I don't understand since he's got two children of his own with one on the way. That is more surprising to me.

"How is the kid? Still getting beat up?"

"Not as much. He's able to run faster now." I smile.

"I'd think so, with all the work outs he does for gymnastics." Clint rolls his eyes. "You know you should have put him in a more contact sport. He'd probably land more ladies that way."

"Peter's not that way and you know it." Clint use to babysit Peter when he was young. The two are close, almost like family. Peter had grown up thinking Clint was his uncle until broke the news that they weren't, actually, related when Peter tried making a family tree for 4th grade history. I still remember how sadly adorable he looked when he thought he wouldn't grow up to be like 'Uncle Clint.'

"But he'd probably get out of his shell more, meet new friends." Clint sits down has his desk across from me, leaning far back in his black, leather desk chair.

"He's happy where he is."

"I guess. My son's playing soccer over the summer. He's so excited."

"That's not a contact sport."

"Unfortunately, he's a pip-squeak. I can't put him in football until he's at least my height."

I smirk. "He'd still be too short."

Clint looks offended. He's not by any means short, but he's average height. That didn't mean that someone was tall. In fact, Peter was caught up already. Him and Clint nearly looked each other in the eyes these days. Part of me wished I knew Peter's birth parents so I could compare, but that's not the case. His dad must have been tall, though.

I was broken away from my thoughts when I looked back at Clint. He was still pouting on the comment. Luckily, Clint brushed comments like that off easily: something I like about him, considering I'm not the nicest of people.

"You know you could be a little nicer, Nat. Maybe you'd find a husband that way." Clint commented.

"I already have a kid, why do I need a husband?" I rebuttle. It was supposed to be a light tease, but Clint's face got dark and somber.

"Peter won't be around forever, you know." Clint started. "I remember that before Peter you never really took care of yourself. You barely ate or slept; always doing something for S.H.E.I.L.D. But that's over now."

"I don't plan on going back to S.H.E.I.L.D." I glared.

"I know, but I'm talking more about your depression. You can't just be by yourself the rest of your life." He looked concerned. Clint was never concerned, always confident and annoying. I hated when he was like this. Guilt tripping me.

* * *

Peter came to me when I was still working with S.H.E.I.L.D, an undercover, super-intelligent, government operation. I was on a stake out one night, living in a neighborhood while watching some enemy agents move back and forth in the midnight streets.

While watching my camera monitors, I noticed a figure at the front door. The slight build, but taller stature looked masculine to me. He wore a black rain poncho, over a red jacket and white polo. His face was masked by the darkness of the hood he wore. The only thing I notices was that his face was covered in bandages, some having large, dark, wet spots that hid his features further. The person dropped off a box, closed but not sealed, knocked twice and ran off.

Curious, I walked through the hall and slowly and quietly opened the door. With my gloves on and my face and eyes protected by my body suit mask, one I brought just in case of poison or explosives, I slid the box over a few inches with my foot. Nothing was triggered. I squatted down and pushed it again. Nothing went off. Eventually, I found it safe enough to open. It was a child, wrapped in a blanket with white, fluffy, packing peanuts filling the bottom of the box.

I shrugged and poked the child's cheek, seeing if it was alive. It gurgled and moved away from my hand. I was so shocked I pulled my hand back as quickly as I could. It was alive, alright.

Looking around again, I saw no sign of the man. Before I knew it, I was pulling the child out and into my arms. I'd never held a baby before. It reeked of sanitization and baby powder; but, somehow, I didn't mind it.

The baby snuggled into my chest, which was comforting and weird all at the same time. The quickly fading purplish sky hovered above us. That's when I heard the gun shots. There were exactly eight of them, all coming from down the empty-blackened street. The street lights shuttered with the pure energy those shots gave off. Neighbors popped their head out to investigate the ruckus and gossip. I wouldn't say this was exactly a natural thing for them.

I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to run after them. But I couldn't. I was glued to the floor with a child in my arms. Noticing the nervous vibe of the baby, I moved it inside, away from the gunshots and screams.

I quickly called back up to investigate then relaxed with the child on the couch. This entire time he'd barely made a peep, simply content in the new surroundings.

"What do I do with you?" I whispered to him. Of course, he didn't understand but his gaze upon me was one in which could stop anyone's heart. I wiggled my finger at his small hand. He latched onto it, gripping it hard and tight.

From what, Clint, had told me about foster care, I was reluctant to take that approach. This child didn't deserve it, having already been abandoned. I sighed, choosing to wait until tomorrow to make a decision.

After a few days of crying, laughing, runs to the grocery and toy store. The little house we lived in started to feel much brighter, as did I.

The path was pretty easy going after that. I quit S.H.E.I.L.D, or at least went on "hiatus" for fifteen years, Fury never would let me leave, and took care of Peter.

I never regretted that decision, not ever.

* * *

Getting home that night, I crept up the steps to the second floor. Reaching Peter's door, I cracked it open just slightly. He was already asleep in bed, a comic book resting on the side table.

I smiled. Part of me wished that he was a baby again. Thinking about the fact that he would in a few short years made my heart ache.

"Goodnight, Peter." I whispered with a sigh, before closing the door and snapping it shut.

* * *

 **So that was Natasha's point of view. How's it going so far? Still interested? Please let me know!**

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	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

 **Peter's POV**

I heard her at the door. "Goodnight, Peter." She whispered before closing the door up tight, until the latch was securely in the wall.

Back in the day, she'd leave me with a babysitter often. I understood why – she had to work, of course, not like she had to make money to pay for food or anything – but, still, I was sad to see her leave. So much so, that I use to stay awake after bedtime to have her say goodnight to me. It was soothing and comforting.

Pathetically, it still was.

Why do I say 'pathetically?' Because I'm fifteen and still find comfort in mom saying goodnight to me, I mean, how terrible is that?

I never cared about going to school without a goodbye or her leaving for work without giving me a hug, never. I grew out of that. It was simple to forget about those things. But for some, stupid, reason I like when she says goodnight. I should be old enough to fall asleep without mommy-dearest coming in. It's so bad, I can't even say how bad it is.

Thinking back, I guess because when she says it, it was the only time I ever felt like she showed true emotion. For once her eyes weren't dead strong or tired and grumpy, they were soft and warm and her voice was finally not take charge, angry, frustrated, monotone, or any of the other billion ways it could be, it was slow and happy.

Is it weird to be nostalgic at my age? I mean I'm not that old, but I feel like I've suddenly turned into a rusty, old, grump when I think about the past. Probably the reason I don't do it often.

As my eyes begin to flutter shut, I begin to think "screw it" before going to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, I am awoken by the most unpleasant of sights. A man. Shocking, I know. He was larger than me but still slightly gangly. His arms were twiggy and he wore a black t-shirt and jeans.

Eck. Why couldn't it at least be a girl?

Still being in my sleep stages, I can attest that it was not me who made the girly scream just seconds before I jolted awake. I backed up against my headboard, the wood brushing my hair as I rested my head against it, discarding my comforter as I did so.

"Hold up! You're her kid." He exclaimed quietly. Suddenly a bright, eye-killing light, lit up the room. Turning my head away, I notice the window open and my curtains slowly blowing out into the room as the crisp breeze puffs them outwards.

"Did you climb through my window?" I call to him, irritated. "I'm not Rapunzel, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, kid. I need you to look at the camera." He ignored me. How could he ignore me?

I cover my face with my hands, so that all of his shots are ruined. "This is illegal!"

"Freedom of Press." Oh, now he answers. Jerk.

Suddenly, my bedroom door smashes open with a loud bang. The type that shakes the roof and knocks pictures off the wall. It's also the type that makes crazy photographers jump out of their skins.

Only one person that could do that.

"Mom." I whisper, turning my head in that direction.

She looks pissed off, more than usual. That unemotional façade that she likes to wear with her make up is completely thrown away.

"You're her!" He takes pictures of her, too. She didn't even blink before swiping her leg under his feet and taking him to the ground easily. She grabbed the camera and ripped it off his neck with a large snap. She threw the camera to me and slammed him on his front so that she could handcuff him. "You're arrested for breaking and entering." I've seen her do this so many times, but I was still in shock of some dude landing in my room that I felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

She tucks her hand into his shirt and lifts him up in one large swoop. Basically, dragging him by his shirt, she forces him out of the room. I hear him tumble, nosily, down the staircase. He was apologizing the whole time. Then, I hear the front door ripped off its hinges, the man tossed to the curb, and her slamming the door shut.

While this is happening, I turn my attention to the camera. Taking out the memory card, I separate the two, then check for any backup storage. There wasn't any. But at least mom has evidence of breaking and entering from the pictures when she sues his ass.

"Peter?" I hear from the doorway. Mom stands at the door, one hand on the frame, the other on her hip. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." I respond. "What the heck happened?"

"Just some press from the case I'm working on."

"You've never had press before. Not at home at least." I realize that I'm being overly suspicious. But when a random dude crashes your already non-existent sleep, it more than fair to ask questions.

"This is a very special case."

"What case is it?"

"No need to worry about that, Peter."

"Mom." I moaned. "We promised no secrets."

I held up my pinkie from when we swore back when I was little that we'd have no secrets with each other. That's when she told me about the fact that I was adopted.

* * *

I can tell she's debating on whether or not to tell me. I've just lived with her so long that even the slight twitch of her eyeballs give it away, but to most people she'd probably look like she was standing complete confident and stoic. As if she had done nothing.

I really wish I could master that. It would be so much easier than telling my teachers that I hadn't done the homework.

Eventually, she sighs. Grabbing the askew, wooden, desk chair, she turns is around fully, sitting on it backwards. Resting her arms on the back, she stares back at me.

"Recently, there is a new development in one of my old cases. You see, back when you were small, I worked on the Tracy Howard case. Tracy, was a woman who was having an affair with a man named, Christian Howard. However, she was married to the very powerful senator, Richard Daft, had a big diamond ring and everything. Together they had two children: Anna and Maddie. But because of the affair, eventually, they filed for divorce. Tracy went off and married Christian not to long after, taking the children with her and publicly disgracing Daft's reputation."

"So, what's that got to do with you?"

"Months after the marriage between Christian and Tracy, Tracy began to feel like she was being watched. Overtime, she became paranoid about it and asked for some security and investigation. Originally, we had thought that it was her ex-husband, Richard, but when Tracy was murdered later that year, Richard and an air-tight alibi."

"He hired a hitman, maybe?"

"That's what we thought too, but we could never find evidence to support it. The next most logical choice was to investigate her husband, Christian. However, when we did we found that we were denied entry to their household even with a warrant. We had to force ourselves inside. We tried kicking the door in but it was blocked from the inside. I shot at the lock, unaware that one of their daughters had been standing behind the door. That's when we finally got the door opened. However, what happened next is a bit strange."

I nod, urging her to continue.

"We were suddenly being shot out ourselves. I couldn't see the culprit but I saw the dark shadow figure and started to retaliate. They were shoot wildly at us, one of which hit me in the shoulder."

I remembered that. When my mom was in the hospital after being shot, she acted like it was no big deal. I cried a lot though. I honestly thought she was going to die. I mean, at the time, I didn't think you could survive a bullet at all. Clint use to make fun of me for it, especially when he had to come babysit me when she had physical therapy. Man, that had to be like eight years ago, what a long time for a case to come back.

I look back at her. There was more she wanted to say. I could tell, otherwise she would have left already.

"There's more isn't there?"

She nodded. "Most of the time when we shoot, it's more of a warning shot. Not really intended to hit the target, but I was in such a defensive state that I aimed directly at the figure and shot. One bullet was all it took to take the culprit down, but when we finally calmed down, we realized that I had, unknowingly shot one of his daughters. Anna to be specific.

My eyes opened wide at the pure shock of knowing this. I had never known my mom to accidently shoot anyone, though I suppose it wasn't an accident, per se. She intended to stop the attack, but just simply didn't take in the fact that there were others in the home.

"What happened to her?"

"I had shot her in the back of the neck and she became paralyzed from the waist down."

"What about the case?"

"We found the evidence we needed to charge Christian for Tracy's murder. He was sent to prison, though I think he's on parole somewhere and Anna and Maddie went to live with their father, Richard. But, only months after the incident, Anna died."

I breathed out, for the first time since this story started. "Jeez, mom. You have a screwed up job."

She chuckled slightly. Then something occurred to me. "But why is that all affecting us now?"

"Recent developments with other cases have led to a body, Eddie Chavez. His bones were found on a trail in the foothills. Along with the bones, came a ring."

She looked up, seriously. He eyes deadly and angry. "Tracy's ring."

* * *

 **Good back story? Good enough to start an investigation?**

 **Please follow, favorite, and review!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **Figured I'd give this fic another shot.**

* * *

Natasha POV

"Tracy's ring."

"How is that even possible?" Peter asked.

"I guess that's the point of conducting and investigation." I ruffle his already messed up hair. "Now, come on, you still have school today."

He groaned, falling back onto his pillow.

* * *

The morning went per usual. Peter didn't say much after I had told him what happened. As ashamed as I am of that mistake, it's going to affect his life now, what with the paparazzi and reporters coming after him. It was the main reason I decided to tell him the truth.

I always hated the press, the annoying, little vultures. But when I heard Peter scream, I figured it was because of all the noise outside. I, certainly, wasn't expecting some skinny photographer standing over him trying to take front page pictures.

Still stewing from that furious thought, I stuff Peter's sandwich into a bag, not taking into consideration that it may be crushed now. I wasn't going to remake it, but Peter probably wouldn't care anyways. That or he'll think it got smashed by his books or something. Either way, I was in the clear. Making a slight crinkle noise, I fold the top of the bag forward into a nice spiral.

"Peter!" I called to him, "We're going to be late!"

We concluded that there was just no possible way for Peter to get out of the house, walk to school, and not be hounded by reporters, so I'm driving him today. I also need to get to work early so that I can start getting on this case and get the press off my front lawn.

"Yeah, Mom! I'm coming." I hear rumbling on the ceiling from Peter rushing to get ready after taking a shower. Once I heard the backpack zip, it was only moments before he tumbled down the stairs, his socks making him slide on the wooden staircase. "Let me just put my shoes on."

"Breakfast?" I asked, concerned that he wasn't eating enough, especially since he had training today.

"Nah, I'm good." He replied, distracted by stuffing the already smashed lunch into his backpack before zipping it again. "I don't have much of an appetite right now anyways."

He threw his backpack over his shoulder, making his light gray jacket scrunch up under his arms just a bit. "Still in shock?" I tease.

He scoffs. "Sorry, Mom. But when you have a random dude come in through your window," he points at me, "it's a compliment, but when he comes through mine," he points at himself, "it's harassment."

He says it so sarcastically with little nods of his head, I smile just a bit. It occurs to me more and more everyday that he's becoming a smartass, not that I mind a little good humor every so often, just as long as it doesn't get out of hand.

"Alright." I give, holding my hands up in defeat. "No breakfast today." I'd argue with him, normally, on things like this. But Peter was also a growing boy, he ate 24/7 even without my help. Going one meal, probably wasn't going to kill him.

I grab my keys from the center table in the hallway, swinging them around my finger until they hit my palm. "Ready?"

"Yeah." We begin to walk towards the garage, Peter grabbing his training bag as he does. I look at him curiously, then he mentions. "By the way, I figured coming back home may be a hassle, so I'm bringing my gear with me to school, so I can leave from there."

I shrug. "Sounds like a plan to me." Better to keep Peter as far away from this as possible.

We pull up to the school. Peter in the passenger seat with his backpack on his lap as he leans on it. He clicks the buttons on his phone.

"Alright." I park the car, looking at him. "Have a good day at school."

"Thanks, Mom." He replies nonchalantly, then he turns and smiles at me. "Good luck at work."

"I'll do my best." I promised. "Love you." I call as he shuts the door with a slam. He walks a few feet then turns around, continuing to walk backwards as he waves at me, before spinning around again to walk forward. At least he heard me, right?

* * *

Work was also hounded with reporters. Ignoring their constant whines for attention, I made my way inside.

"Looks like you've gotten yourself into a bit of trouble, Nat." Clint greets me at the front door. Steve Rogers, a cop on the force follows him.

I flip him off, already annoyed with today.

"I should have gotten a picture of that for a harassment case I'm trying to pin you on." Clint chuckles.

"What have you got for me, Barton?" I straighten my jacket, taking off towards the office.

"Unfortunately, I got nothing. Steve's been helping me compile his criminal records from the archives. But other than perhaps connecting a few other felonies to Chavez. There hasn't been much."

"So, there's no new developments." I sigh frustratingly. This was going to be much harder and take much longer than I thought.

"Not currently, ma'am." Steve speaks, strong and confident. "Nothing concrete anyways."

"What do we have that's not concrete?"

Clint plunked the folder he was carrying down, opening it to one of the pages. I picked it up, seeing a chemical report on the ring. "Steve here is probably better at answering that question." Clint stepped aside, letting Steve point out things on the document.

"You're the new rookie, right?" I remember his face being posted in the breakroom. Top of his class at the police academy. They say that within a few months, he'd probably be drafted to SWAT. That was where Clint and I first started after quitting SHIELD, before Clint convinced me to move with him to a kinder job because he started having kids and I had one.

Guess, something had to be said about always being home for dinner at night. Although, even if Clint were to die, the kids had their mother. Peter, however, didn't have anyone.

"Yes, ma'am. Steve Rogers." He held out his hand.

"Nice to meet you." I took his hand. "So, what's the deal?"

"Well the ring we found was Tracy's, however it was missing the diamond. We found that the diamond that was found at the scene was fake."

"Cubic zirconia?"

"As usual." Clint nodded.

That peaked my interest. "Sold it, maybe?"

"That's our best guess." Steve suggested. "Chavez wasn't the richest person after all. That kind of money is hard to come by."

I hum in agreement. "Any known buyers?"

"Like the guy kept a log?" Clint smirked, sarcastically. He moved to lean against the desk on my right, folding his arms across his chest. He looked down at the document, too.

I shrug. _Damn it._

"Anything else?" I dropped the subject. It wasn't going to get us anywhere now.

"Well, he did have a connection to Daft." Steve told her.

"How so?" My eyes shoot to his. He didn't even flinch. That's a strong cop, right there. _So much for not having any new developments,_ I thought.

"Don't give that look, I know what you're thinking, but like he said nothing is concrete." Clint raised his hands in surrender. "Chavez and Daft use to work together."

"More like Daft was Chavez's boss." Steve corrected.

"I'm thinking a revenge scheme." Clint added.

"I'm not so sure." Steve disagreed.

Both Clint and I raised an eyebrow, causing the cop to backtrack slightly. "Not that it is off the table, but why go after someone's ex-wife? Why not the kids or his assets? Something that means something more to him."

Clint pouted his lips and nodded his head back and forth, noting that it was a good idea.

"I don't know. Even millionaires have some form of connection to their ex-wives." I suggested.

Steve just stood there.

"I'm thinking a hit man." I replied.

"We already went down that path the first time we got the case." Clint reminded me.

"Yes. But something tells me that the hit to Daft's reputation was bigger than he leads on."

"Nah." Clint waves a hand in front of his nose, dismissing the remark. "If it did he wouldn't be a senator anymore."

 _True_ , I thought. Reputation is everything in politics. Being a senator for as many years as Daft was meant he had to have a pretty good reputation still or he was very good at covering things up.

"I think it's worth looking into." Steve shrugged.

"Who's on forensics for the case?" I wondered aloud.

"Stark and Banner." Clint answered. "You know them."

Of course, I do. Banner was usually pretty good to work with, easy going, smart and casual. Stark was the problem. Cocky and annoying, but he was incredible at his work, so it was necessary to keep him aboard. Honestly, if he weren't working for the police department, he'd probably be the greatest criminal ever known to man.

"So, they've looked at everything?" I asked, wanting more information.

"Even if they hadn't, they'd say they had. Stark, especially."

"They are the best we have in New York." Steve supplied.

"Still don't have to be so cocky about it." Clint shrugged.

Then something struck me. We've been talking so much about Richard Daft, we forgot about the other player, Christian Howard.

"Is Christian Howard still in custody?"

"No. He never went into custody, remember?" Clint answered. Damn, forgot about that. We never were able to prove his involvement, but no one's seen him in years either.

"Any idea where he is?"

"Yeah, right." Clint responded, sarcastically. "We still have a warrant out for his arrest."

"With that motivation, I'd be hiding too." Steve commented.

"Yep. He's looking at a lot of jail time for evading the law." Clint added, stretching out his back before returning to his original position.

I sat back at my chair, crossing my hands and bringing them to my chin. Christian was never booked, and he's been hiding out for years. Then all of a sudden Eddie Chavez turns up dead with a connection to Tracy's ex Richard Daft. Not to mention, Chavez had the ring.

"If only we could find him."

"Well," Steve began, "if we could, it would answer a lot of questions about the case."

"And win you a large warrant." Clint gently punched Steve in the arms several times, chuckling as he did so.

"Knock it off," the office brushed him away. "It isn't because of the money."

"Even if it is, no one would blame you. Can't imagine what it must be like on an officer's salary."

"It's fine. Just me at home anyways."

"Now that's the real shock." Clint smirked. "Just wait until you meet someone and settle down. You'll drop out of SWAT in no time."

"That'll be a while, Detective." Steve politely smiled.

I sighed at the antics. "I'm going to chat with Banner and Stark, see if there's anything else."

"Good luck with that." Clint waved me along as I gather the papers and close the vanilla folder. "Also ask Stark if theirs any good bars nearby, you'll probably need it!"

I could hear him laughing. I could even hear Rogers chuckling to himself.

* * *

Before I even stepped foot through those doors, I had to compose myself. Both Stark and Banner were incredibly intelligent and would annoy the crap out of me if given the opportunity. At least Banner didn't do it on purpose, Stark was another story. How Banner puts up with him I'll never know.

Banner and Stark are partners. They work together in the forensics but really do much more research. In fact, they've been on several magazines, written scientific journals and are known throughout the world. To be honest, I think this is just a past time for them. Something on the side to help with their conscious.

In fact, I know it is for Stark since he also runs a multi-billion-dollar company. Honestly, I think he simply likes being around Banner. They're very like-minded, even though their personalities are opposite.

Banner… he's a toss-up.

They were good at it though, had to give them credit for that.

Banner is the eldest, a leading scientist in many fields. Stark, however, is relatively new to this field, has only been apart of it for about two years now. He joined to somehow change the way police run their science departments after him being kidnapped and the force not being able to find clues for a while. He's done well, but is ego gets in the way of any real congrats from anyone.

I stare at the white, metal door for a while. I knock and enter without hearing a reply.

The two wheel around their desk chairs, starring at me. "Romanoff." Bruce smiles, kindly. Always liked him, perhaps more than I like to lead on.

"What do we owe the pleasure? Need a hacker? Forensics? Maybe a date to a wedding?" Stark asks, raising his eyebrows.

Right. "Anything new with the Chavez case?" I question him, making my tone demanding and undeniably terrifying. Sometimes I had to play hardball with Stark.

"Rogers, didn't tell you?" Bruce asked, he leaned his elbows on his knees, neatly folding his hands under his chin.

"I've spoken with him, but I need something better."

"Well, that's all we got." Stark said pointedly. "If you don't need a date, you know were the door is."

"Tony." Bruce chastised. "Unfortunately, Ms. Romanoff…"

"Natasha, please." I corrected him.

"Natasha." He corrected. "Unfortunately, we don't have anything to give you except some lost trails, currently. Until we find something, we don't feel the need to inform you."

"That's Brucie's way of saying to get the hell out of here and let us do some work." Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. "You're only like the eighth person to ask today."

"That's not it at all, Tony." Bruce replied, looking kind of embarrassed.

"Then you need to work harder." I comment directly at Stark.

"Find some real evidence and maybe we could." He shrugged, smugly.

I felt my eyes darken. I slam my hand on his desk, shaking the papers clear off. I lean forward into his personal space. "If a diamond ring that belonged to a long-forgotten case isn't evidence than you need to go back to your precious mansion, rich boy."

"At least you know your facts, Nat." He smirked. Damn it! I never could intimidate Stark properly. Not without threatening his life, but even then, he didn't seem to care.

I stare at him a bit longer, only to watch his mask shatter ever so slightly when his iris began to shake. I moved away. "Call me if you find something."

"We'll be sure to do that." Stark waved.

"We understand, Natasha." Bruce said. "You'll be the first."

I hear my shoes click their way to the exit before nearly slamming the metal door on their face.

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